Call This Quidditch?
by TAFKAF
Summary: Three American Quidditch teams from different schools are shoved into an all-star tournament. It just so happens that each team hates the others. Should be interesting... (Rating for sort of minor language)
1. Flier of Doom

A/N: Okay, yeah. This is the story of a young American Quidditch team, which through sheer talent makes it to the 2001 World Cup final (I've figured it to be seven years between each Cup), the opposing team of which has some rather surprising people on its side. Yes, the 2001—so Harry, in England, is 21. It will eventually span six years' time, starting in 1995. J.K. Rowling owns all surprising people, broomsticks, the concept of Quidditch itself, and all fouls, moves, and teams written into _Quidditch Through the Ages_. I, Flamewing, claim full responsibility for all homemade brooms, creative (put tactfully, you understand) fowls, and antics of the completely made-up Tri-State Terrors.

***

There's a cluster of magical schools in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and New York—three, to be exact. In New Jersey, it's Merlin T. Ridpath Academy of Magic. New York State's is a magnet school for the especially gifted—Nicholas Flamel School for Sorcery. Pennsylvania's addition to the vast halls of learning takes its form in Morwenna Elmira Robinson Academy.

Each has a Quidditch team—and Quodpot, but that's irrelevant. The teams play other schools, and there's a sort of collective rivalry between the three of them.

Merlin's Mighty Mice is all freshmen, somehow, meaning they're a lot smaller than the other teams—conversely that means faster. Flamel's Fighters, however, had the best Seeker in the American Minors Quidditch League. And the top Beaters in the same league were on Robinson's Rally.

A motley crew—the small people, the smart people, and the people who are good at swinging mutated baseball bats.

No wonder they hated each other, really.

***

"Oh, sweet mother of Merlin," whispered Jill Devin, staring at the flier on the bulletin board. It was a plain white thing, lost among all the other neon papers screaming about interest meetings for such-and-such a thing, in such-and-such a place. You'd think a death toll would arrive with more pomp.

But this slip of paper, with simple black block letters, spelled out a casting call that could only result in doom.

"Jill? Um…what are you staring at?"

The tiny redhead turned slowly, eyes still wide and round. Fortunately, Jill was still in enough control of her cerebral functions that she recognized the tall, gawky blonde in front of her—Phoebe Marx, fellow Chaser on the Mighty Mice.

With considerable melodrama, Jill announced, "Phoebe, the world has just come down with a crash around our very ears."

Phoebe, a very literal person, cocked her head. "I didn't hear anything. Oh wait—sorry—what's that?" She moved towards the bulletin board, having seen the word "QUIDDITCH." One yard away from it—her eyes were bad even with spectacles—she gasped. "Good Lord, you're right. We're _dead_."

The bell rang for the start of class but neither of them noticed. They stood in the cinder-block lobby, like any other Muggle school, staring at the board and that notice.

A brown-haired boy darted up behind them, from the library across the lobby, but stopped dead at the sight of them. He walked up to them. "Hey, Carrots, Bird. Might I ask what in the name of all that is sacred and holy you're staring at?"

"A message," Phoebe said faintly. "Tony…just read it."

He looked at the white flier and raised his eyebrows. "The American Minors Quidditch League is absolutely insane."  
"They should know we can't fraternize with those kind of lowlifes!" exploded Jill furiously.

"Especially after the rat incident last year," Phoebe said. "Remind me to ask that spell of Gregor, by the way."

Tony shook his head hard, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. It still read the same. "I don't get it. How could they do this to us?"

The flier:

****

THE AMERICAN MINORS QUIDDITCH LEAGUE HAS INITIATED AN ALL-STAR LEAGUE. TEAMS WILL BE CHOSEN FROM POOLS. OUR POOL IS FROM, COLLECTIVELY, MERLIN T. RIDPATH ACADEMY OF MAGIC, MORGANA ELMIRA ROBINSON ACADEMY, AND NICHOLAS FLAMEL SCHOOL FOR SORCERY.

TRYOUTS FOR THE ALL-STAR TEAM WILL TAKE PLACE AT 3:30 PM ON OCTOBER 13, 1995 AT THE MERLIN T. RIDPATH QUIDDITCH PITCH. ALL QUIDDITCH TEAM MEMBERS ARE REQUIRED TO TAKE PART.

GOOD LUCK!

HAVE FUN!

And underneath, someone had scrawled: "_Reggie will you go to Homecoming with me please?_"

Under _that_, in a different handwriting (probably Reggie's): "_Sign your_ _name, genius_."

Such is high school, no matter if you're a witch or not.

***

"They can't make us do this," Pet Wilson said firmly. He had called a team meeting on seeing that stupid flier. "It's constitutionally illegal, I swear." Pet was captain of the Flamel Fighters, from the gifted school, and played Seeker.

Rachel Avery, Keeper, raised her hand. "Sorry, Pet, but as kids and wizards, the U.S. Constitution doesn't apply. We're minors, remember? No rights whatsoever." Rachel was the pessimist of the team, firmly rooted in the opinion that if you expected the worst, you'd only be pleasantly surprised—and that the world had it in for people under eighteen. She was fifteen, herself. "We'll be forced into it. I bet there's some kind of unspoken grading issue—I mean, they wouldn't require it if it didn't have anything to do with grades."

Fiona Keller, Chaser, said matter-of-factly, "No. They only require it because if they didn't, no one would ever try out."

"True," Pet said. "So we're in it for life."

"Not _life_," Fio argued. "The All-Star tournament lasts one season, that's it."

"Darn," Rachel said, unaccountably. When they looked at her, she explained, "No, see…now I've got something to look forward to."

***

"Oh. Good. God."

"I _know!_"

"They can't _do_ this!"

"They're in_sane!_"

"First thing we'll kill each other. And then no one'll try out. Ever."

"We'll be kicked off campus, for another thing."

"I _know_—wait. Why?"

"Hello, you _idiot_. Working with the _enemies_."

"Oh cheese, you're right."

"Laughed off campus because we're _forced_ into this rotten league."  
"At least there's more Qui—"

"If you say even _one_ good thing about this, I'm gonna chop your tongue out with a blunt knife."

"Yes'm."

Wendy Gillman, Emerson Smith, and Natalie McSpirit dispersed to their classes, looking frightened, concerned, and burdened with blind, raging, very scary fury, respectively.

***

Sullenly, the three teams made their way to the Ridpath Quidditch pitch on Friday, October 13th. It was a perfect day for Quidditch, slightly overcast so the sun wouldn't get in one's eyes, a light breeze, and cool enough for one to appreciate the heavy uniforms rather than hating them.

Phoebe, clutching her Hummingbird 16, looked around the stands. There were three groups of people, trying to keep as much space between them as possible—one blue spot, one gray, and one gold. Merlin's Mice, her team, were in the gray, of course—what a mouselike color. All the froshies there looked both pale and hateful, tossing glances like poisoned throwing knives at the other two teams.

"At least it's just the one season," Jill said, trying to sound cheerful but coming across as desperate for something good. "And there _is_ more Quidditch, there's the regular games and then these regional ones—"

Tony said heavily, "Jill, just shut _up_." He examined his broom, handmade by his uncle. "Could anyone please plant a Hurling Hex on this? I don't want to be here…"

"Does anyone?" snapped Phoebe. "Shut up yourself. Coward."

They got into a marvelous argument over that.

***

Rachel Avery held tight to her ancient, dearly beloved, and mightily upgraded Silver Arrow. "Our pitch is better," she said grumpily, determined to find something wrong, and succeeding. "They don't even bother to cut the grass, by Merlin's boots."

"Is that all you can think about? The state of the field? Look at the _people!_" Pet said furiously. "They're a bunch of babies and simpletons! And that group, those little froshies, they keep tossing looks over here like we're going to go over there and beat them with our brooms," he went on, looking fondly at his pride and joy, the Firebolt Model Two, a prototype obtained for him by a slightly nutty yet wealthy great-aunt who was handily Quidditch-obsessed.

Fiona pointed out, "And that's a waste of a good set of brooms." She thought and continued excitedly, "I know what we do! We win. We bring the entire team to the All-Stars. Everyone," she said, glancing around and taking in the Beaters, Tim Garner and Jud Thomas, and the other Chasers, twins Mandy and Missy Hall, "we are going to play the best, and we will all make it into the league."

Rachel looked around at them, too. The only reasons they had won their last three seasons were Pet's excellent Seeking and her own phenomenal Keeping. "Dream on," she muttered.

Presently, she found several people coming at her with brooms and maniacal grimaces, and was a little hard-put to defend herself.

Let's leave her there to duke it out, and see how our last team is doing.

***

Wendy Gillman twirled a strand of blond hair around her finger, looking around nervously. "Guys—"

Natalie whirled on her and barked, "I told you to be _quiet_, dammit. Now shut _up_."

"Touchy," Wendy retorted, but subsided, folding down one of the seats in the stands and sitting, going over her Comet Three Twenty for the sixteenth time. Her heart wasn't in it, and Emerson, standing nearby, saw her blue eyes glittering unnaturally.

"_You_ shut up, McSpirit," muttered a Chaser, Sally-Anne Hiddle. Natalie had the unfortunate reputation of an oppressive maniac who deserved to be whacked resoundingly with several Beater's clubs. Wendy, as one of the Beaters, supported this theory the most, and was probably the most "oppressed."

Natalie turned on Sally-Anne. "I'd like to hear you talk," she sneered. "All you've done is sit and snivel about how you're going to break a damn nail. You can take your makeup and manicured nails and stuff it somewhere, you know that? You're such a…"

Emerson's control snapped and he flung himself at her. While Natalie had the stronger will, Emerson definitely had the greater strength. It was a slightly unfair advantage, as everyone was on Em's side and very soon joined in the fight.

Six to one is a rather promising ratio, don't you agree…?

***

"Good Lord," said a Beater on the Mice, a stocky black-haired boy named Mike. "We're the only team that's going to be alive by the time they call us down, let alone functioning." He pointed at the other teams, both engaged in some spirited fistfights, aided by broomsticks.

Phoebe clapped a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter.

"Oh, that's no fun," Jill whined. "No, seriously. Phoebe, please…"

The other girl calmed down and looked at Jill, eyes wide.

"Think about it. If they can't function, that means we'd all get in by default," the small redhead said.

Tony demanded, "When did we say we wanted to get on the team?"

The others agreed, glaring at Jill like she had said something extremely offensive.

Jill gaped. "Excuse me? Look, it's an all-star team. _Creme de la creme._ If you get in, you're one of the best. And you guys _don't_ want to say that you're good? See, if we all get in, that means that Merlin Academy is the best school for Quidditch—which is true, remember? But if they can't function, we'd be there by default, which means _nothing._"

Phoebe nodded. "That seems reasonable." A wicked gleam came into her eyes. "And as you so generously volunteered—want to go break them up?"

"Holy _crap_," Jill said vehemently. "I never said—that was nothing—I didn't say—"

"Oh, we'll go with you," Tony assured, grinning at Phoebe. "We'll stand behind you, a solid wall of…moral support." He glanced around at the rest of the team. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go!"

They grinned as well and stood up, putting their brooms safely under the rows of folding seats, and followed Phoebe, Tony, and a very pale Jill.

***

Rachel had tossed her broom aside—she wasn't about to let her dear faithful Arrow get injured—and was going for defense tactics: Throw a bunch of confusion hexes until they got themselves into a muddle, then loop them up into a bundle of gibbering monkeys.

It wasn't working too well, mostly because they had five-foot-long brooms and she had a nine-inch, albeit magical, stick.

Then—

"S-stop it."

Rachel threw a glance that way, and saw a very small girl, with a halo of frizzy red hair, standing there, backed by her cronies. She was one of the Mice, a frightened little freshman.

The second of distraction was all Fiona needed to get in a crucial swipe to her shoulder, and the pandemonium continued.

Phoebe wasn't star of the Charms class for nothing. She froze all of them in place, and every broom dropped to the concrete floor with a clatter. The girl put her wand in her pocket and sidled casually up to Rachel, who was stuck in a rather uncomfortable position draped backwards over a chair, the back of which was digging into her spine.

"You did good," Phoebe said approvingly. "All that by yourself…I wouldn't want you for an enemy."

Rachel's fingers were still on her wand, and thinking the words for spells works as well as saying them. As strongly as she could, she thought the countercharm for the freezing spell and straightened, rubbing her back. "No," she said, glaring at Phoebe with very cold gray eyes. "You wouldn't. Unfortunately for you, you are." She sniffed scornfully. "Interfering child. Go back to your corner and play with your little friends."

Phoebe drew herself up, so she was barely on eye-level with Rachel, who was rather short. "I will, after I have my say. I was just trying to help, but no one's gonna accept that, now are they? Especially not you. Ungrateful jerk." She pivoted and strode back to her section of the stands, and the rest of them scurried after her.

"Well," Rachel said quietly. "Perhaps they're not quite as spineless as we had first considered." A pleasant surprise.

Pet unfroze himself and sat immediately. "Ah, what's the point," he said angrily. "We got shown up by a bunch of froshies…let's not continue, shall we?" he went on, unfreezing Fiona and their Beaters, Owen and Ben. "It'll inflate their pitiful egos, you know?"

"Yeah," Fiona said. "Right." She touched a new bruise on her face, and winced. "Plus, you're scared you'll get hurt."

"That's secondary," Pet retorted, sounding affronted.

"But I'm right, correct?"

"Well, yeah."

"Thought so."

***

Robinson's Rally stopped moving on their own, before the Mice even got there. Natalie was sufficiently out of commission, from a combination of punching the side of a chair rather than Yolanda Reese, their Seeker, and receiving a massive thwack from Wendy's broom. Emerson was gasping slightly, after a kick in the stomach, and their Keeper, Ian Wilde, had the beginning of a magnificent black eye, and Wendy had a nosebleed, but they could still _play_.

Wendy dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief and looked at Natalie, out cold and sprawled in a stadium seat. "Well, that was fun."

"You need a spell for that?" Emerson asked, getting his breath back. "Yeah, it was."

Ian winced as he glanced at Natalie, then at the field. "However, it's also served to blacken our names, it seems," he muttered, then dove under a bench for a prolonged retrieval of his Cleansweep Seven.

A very short twenty-something woman, skinnier than a wet cat and about as angry, was charging up the shallow steps to their row. Her brown curly hair, pulled into a ponytail, seemed distinctly out of step with her all-angles face and dark, glittering eyes behind thick black glasses. She stood there, just outside the length of seats, and just glared at the six of them, one of whom was under the bench, three of whom were lying on the concrete floor panting, another who was unconscious, and the last two sitting and nursing injuries and broomsticks.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, voice furious. "An unseemly display of rowdiness, attacking your own team captain! I demand of you, _why?_"

Sally-Anne, one of those lying on the floor, pulled herself into a sitting position and looked up at the woman, eyes wide and earnest. Everyone in Morwenna Academy knew of her dramatic abilities—and the fact that she lied through her teeth at every available opportunity. "Our captain's verbally abusive. She curses at us all the time, and she yelled at Wendy and made her cry. And then she yelled at me for telling her to stop."

She looked around at the rest of them. "Didn't she?" she asked.

They nodded, trying to look pitiful, and Wendy actually started tearing up again.

"That's cause for knocking out a girl who's much smaller than you?" the woman said dryly. "Hardly, I think. She'll be patched up, of course, but she won't be able to perform at all. Five points are automatically subtracted from your tryouts scores." She looked around at them all and sighed. "I'm disappointed in you. First impressions last, and I'll be around you a lot."

She shook her head, sighed again, and conjured a stretcher for Natalie. Then she walked back to the field, head down.

Ian backed out from under the bench so fast he hit his head. "Dang," he said, in awe. "That skinny little hag is going to be our _coach!_"

"How do you know?" Yolanda demanded nervously.

"Duh," Ian said caustically. "She was in Quidditch getup."

On reflection, they recalled that she was—but she had a black cloak rather than any bright color, and the standard shin guards, wrist guards, turtleneck and pants blended in.

"Well, crap."

Emerson wasn't sure who said that—it was probably one of the other Chasers—but it summed everything up extremely well.

***

Phoenix Winter Anders (yes, it's a real name, her parents were hippies) had graduated three years ago from Flamel School of Sorcery, and the 1992 yearbook had listed her as "Most Quidditch-Obsessed." She lived, breathed, talked, ate, and thought Quidditch. If she had the chance to get season-pass tickets to all games at Ben Franklin Stadium, payment being fifty years in Azkaban after the season ended, she'd make the trade. Gladly.

She actually did approve of that team—the one that had beaten up their captain, this Natalie person. If the girl was a bad leader, at least the team had the spirit and unity to pound her to a pulp. They lied for each other. They would gladly die for each other, it seemed.

So this All-Star league, which Phoenix had spoken against rather vehemently, wasn't completely void of promise.

Perhaps another figure, not quite as high. Only seventy-five percent void of promise.

But twenty-five percent is better than nothing, she thought, and called the teams down to the pitch.

***

"This is it," said each captain, and Emerson in place of Natalie. They didn't know they were speaking perfectly in unison, or that their voices quivered in the same places, or that they picked up their brooms with the same hand, simultaneously. And they couldn't know that their teams all stood at the same time, together, and repeated, "This is it."

"Come on, men."

"And women."

And twenty people, moving as an unconsciously seamless whole, marched down to the pitch, carrying their brooms.

The perfect timing disintegrated as soon as they were within glaring distance. They collected in three small groups, little huddles of humanity, which looked suspiciously at the other groups with shifty, nervous, angry looks. Rachel and Phoebe glared the most, as there had been a previous conflict, but there were general dissent and poisonous looks all around.

The small angry woman in black clapped her hands sharply, and the murmuring stopped. "Well," she said, and let the word hang in the air, twisting onto itself and making them all squirm.

"This is the official beginning of the American Minors Quidditch League All-Star Tournament," said the woman, "but you knew that. I, by the way, am Phoenix Anders, the captain of the Northeastern Regional team." She turned on Pet, who had sniggered a bit at her name. "Is there something wrong, young man?" she demanded of this tall, pale individual who, for some reason, strongly reminded her of a Siamese cat. "If you need to cough up a hairball, do it somewhere else."

Pet gaped as the rest of his team stifled laughs. He was picky, scornful of all lower life forms (freshmen, definitely, and non-Quidditch players, to some extent), and had a way of smoothing his clothes and hair that was extremely reminiscent of a feline.

Several of the other team members were grinning as well, but Phoenix was having none of it. She clapped her hands again and went on like nothing had happened.

"There will be a half-hour period for warming up, all of you. A third set of goals has been set up, as you can see," she said, pointing at three goal hoops along the middle of the field. "Those are for Chaser and Keeper practice. Seekers and Beaters, just warm up and fly around. Understand?"  
They all nodded, as it would take a severely impaired rock not to get what she was saying.

"Good. Be back here in half an hour. Then tryouts will begin—first Chasers, then Keepers, then Beaters, and lastly Seekers. There will be a description of your tryout before each one."

They waited, staring at her, until Phoenix flapped her hands at them and barked, "Well? Disperse!"

"Brooms," Jill ordered, and the Mice took off and flew to the eastern end of the field. Pet, having recovered from the feline barb, took his team to the western end, and the Rally was left to use the center posts.

Phoenix looked up at them, and grinned like a wolf. "This will be _fun._"

***

A/N: That's that chapter. Well? Any thoughts? I will love anyone who reviews…This may go on for a while, if anyone is interested in the fic.


	2. Some Confusion

A/N: Yeah…it's late…sorry… but anyway. Read on.

***

Rachel hung in midair, straddling her Silver Arrow. The goal hoops were behind her and Fiona was in front, with the Quaffle and a grin. Fio tossed the Quaffle, which fell miserably short and had to be rescued by a sneering Mandy Hall.

"Come on, Fiona, you _have_ an arm!" she called, throwing the ball to her twin. "Show her, Missy."

"Really, hurry up!" Rachel yelled. "I'm getting absolutely no practice this way, and it's not _fun…_"

Mandy, dropping to the side, shouted back, "Quit whining, baby."

  
"I'll get you for that one," the Keeper whispered to herself, switching her attention to Missy, now bearing down, Quaffle under her arm. At the last possible second, Missy swerved to the right and down a few feet, attempting to toss the ball up and through the right-hand hoop.

It was a simple job for Rachel to skid over and grab the Quaffle with one hand. With a smirk, she dropped it to Mandy, twenty feet below.

"Wipe the smile off your face, Keeper," yelled Fio. "Girls. H-A-F, now!"

The three of them formed an arrowhead, Mandy front and center. Missy and Fio hung to the sides. "Plumpton when we get there," Mandy hissed. "I go up, toss to Missy, Missy scores."

"We hope."

Fifteen feet away, just outside the scoring area, the arrowhead dissolved. Mandy zoomed up ten feet, Missy drifted down, and Fio flew, screeching shrilly, at Rachel.

"Oh, ha-ha," said the Keeper sarcastically, and flew around her. The Quaffle barreled up, on a direct course to her own stomach, and stopped there in her hands. "Relatively nice, but as the tryouts are individual, you'll have to lay off on the togetherly things. Try a few penalty shots from center pitch. Missy, you first."

"Why me?" Missy demanded, pouting."

Rachel glared. "Because. I said so."

Missy nodded, scared, and retrieved the Quaffle. She flew back as far as she could, assuming it was at least the distance between the starting circle and the goal area. When Fio whistled sharply, between her two front teeth (unfortunately gapped), Missy kicked up her broom and rocketed towards the goals. The Quaffle flew out of her hand.

With a move that almost flung her from her broom, Rachel threw herself to the left. The Quaffle, though, had other ideas and sailed over her body and neatly through the left-hand hoop.

"Not so far, Rachel!" yelled Mandy. "Missy, good job. Now get your butt back here and gimme the Quaffle!"

Missy obliged, grinning. She had beat her own Keeper, supposedly best in the League. Well. She'd shown _them_.

Meanwhile, Mandy grabbed the bright red ball and drifted to Missy's starting point. When there, she carefully smoothed her hair and made sure her blond ponytail was secure, tossed her head a few times (glancing at one of the boys from the other team, who gave her a filthy look and went back to swinging his Beater club), and posed for a second.

"Come _on_, Mandy, they still don't like you," Rachel bellowed. "Get your mind back to the pitch!"

"I'm _collecting _myself!" Mandy shrieked back. Very suddenly, she accelerated her Nimbus Two Thousand. Rachel tensed, watching carefully.

Before she was even in the scoring area, Mandy flung the ball. The Keeper watched it lazily, and a second before it reached the hoops, stretched one hand and caught the Quaffle.

Fio yelled, "Don't throw that early! It was dead obvious which one you were going to!"

Mandy pouted like a three-year-old. "I'd like to see you do better!"

"Then you _will!_ Rachel, throw it here."

Rachel smirked, nodded, and tossed the Quaffle to the small brunette. Fio turned with a flounce—how was that possible on a broom? Rachel wondered—and drew back.

Unlike Mandy, she went straight for it—zoom, she was streaming up the pitch (their third of it, anyway) like lighting. And within ten feet of the goal, Fio drew back to throw, took careful aim—

Just as fast, Rachel slid around her and plucked the Quaffle out of Fio's single-hand grip. "Ha, ha. And I'm not even outside of the goal area, either," said the Keeper.

  
"Yes!" Mandy shouted. "At least _I_ can aim faster than a_ snail_!"

  
Fio's hazel eyes filled, and her lower lip trembled. Shoulders shaking, she dropped to the ground. By the time her feet touched the pitch, she was sobbing like a baby.

Rachel stormed back to the goals, and scowled fiercely at a sparrow flying by. "Why is my team composed almost entirely of wimps and idiots?" she demanded of the universe in general.

It didn't answer.

***

"EM, GET YOUR EYES OFF THAT GIRL!" A Muggle softball came careening towards Emerson's head, forcing him less than six inches from decapitation. He swung wildly with his bat, sending the softball…somewhere else. To tell the truth, he didn't know where it went.

"Darn it, Em, that nearly took your head off," Wendy said, zooming up and looking apologetic. "Sorry."

He shrugged, taking a few deep breaths for recovery. "S'okay. Just…where's the softball?"

She pointed, grinning. One of the froshies on the Mouse team was laid out flat on the ground, hat somewhere ten feet away. His broom was on the ground nearby, but _he _was almost certainly unconscious.

"Oh, royal crap," Emerson muttered. "I killed someone already."

Wendy smirked. "He's a Seeker. So at least he didn't screw with Beater tryouts." She looked at the Mouse boy carefully. "And I don't think he's dead." A sidelong glance at Emerson. "Yet."

He gulped. "Thanks a lot."

"You're welcome a lot."

"Excuse me!" Yolanda shouted shrilly from across the pitch. Wendy and Emerson looked around, confused, and found the Seeker about fifteen feet above the ground. "My broom's gone funny. Like, it'll start sparking or something? But only when I do this." Yolanda pulled up on the handle, the standard steering direction for an upward slant.

A cloud of gold sparks and thick gray smoke, visible from at least a hundred feet, shot out the end of her Shooting Star 17.6. Ironically.

Emerson smacked his own forehead. "Damn, damn, damn…why's all this have to happen to _me_…"

"You're special," Wendy said gravely, one hand on his shoulder. "Remember that, Em. You're very special."

"And you can go jump in a lake."

"I'd rather not, thanks."

"Take your broom with you."

Wendy looked perfectly scandalized.

***

Six small, gray-clad shapes dove to the ground, surrounding their fallen Seeker.

"What on earth?" Jill breathed. "Sam? Are you alive?"  
The skinny blond boy stirred, groaning.

Phoebe glared over at the blue-robed team in the field segment next to them. A Chaser had just flown into the center goal post, but that was secondary—two of them were hanging around fifty feet in the air, heads together and pointing.

"It's them," she muttered. "I swear they took out our Seeker on purpose."

"So that means we don't have a chance of all getting on," Tony said with a shrug. "Look, if one of them gets Seeker, there are still six of us. Six to one?"

Jill stamped her foot and immediately yelped—the ground was hard from a few rainless weeks. "Damn," she muttered, hopping around a few times. As soon as she recovered, she finally said, "Look, Tony, I don't mean to burst your bubble—"

"Betcha you do," Phoebe whispered.

"Shut your trap," Jill returned regally. "But anyway. Tony, I've been watching them, and they're really good. Our Beaters are nothing to them. And our Seeker's out. And, Caitlin, no offense, but…"

Sensitive brunette Keeper Caitlin Willard sniffed loudly. "It's all right. I know you think I'm horrible." She blinked rapidly for a few seconds, threw her broom to the rock-hard ground, and fled, sobbing.

Phoebe stared after her. "Has anyone but me entertained the idea that the universe has got it in for our team?"

Several others nodded. "Crap."

Whoever said that was a genius, Phoebe thought vengefully.

***

Phoenix Anders checked her watch, fumbling slightly because of the clipboard held in her right hand. After that girl had gone off crying, and that boy had been dragged to the clinic, and that _other _girl had stopped hexing innocent sparrows, and the _other _one, the blond spongebrain, had gotten a replacement broom… well, ten minutes had passed. Half an hour was officially up in…three, two, one…

PHWEEEEEEEP. The silver whistle between her lips sounded shrilly.

"Dear God, it can't have gone that quickly!" bellowed the melodramatic Siamese cat-boy.

"Well guess what, lackwit, it did," screamed the sparrow-hexer.

"You've got feathers in your hair, Rachel…"

The girl screeched piercingly and raked her hair with clawed fingers.

Shouted another, "And now you look like you've got fleas!"  
Rachel desisted, looking miserable, and sank to the pitch.

The other teams were already on the ground, and looked at Flamel's Fighters with amusement. For a gifted school's team, you'd think they could respond to simple commands like "come down"… You could hear the stifled giggles, see the little glitter of superiority in every eye, and as good as smell the triumph at catching the local geniuses in a human moment among the simpleminded idiots.

Phoenix grinned nastily, staring at the Fighters. Promptly, the teams around her began making faces behind her back, sticking out their tongues and crossing their eyes…it was horrendous. Of course, as soon as Tony noticed the Rally was doing the same thing, he made all the Mice stop—it would be a horrible travesty, to be joined in anything with the enemy teams.

By the time the Fighters settled, the Rally had calmed down. Anders turned and began to speak.

"Well then. As I said before, Chasers will go first. The nine of you—I think, unless if anyone _else _has decided to desert? No? Just nine? All right. The nine of you—will—" Suddenly, for no reason at all, she looked annoyed, glared down at her clipboard.

Anders thought, appearing extremely peeved. Then, she tore the top sheet off her clipboard and muttered, "To hell with that. If that stupid League forces me…should let me do it_ my_ way, dammit…" More loudly, "A change of plans. There will _not _be individual tryouts."

The three Fighter Chasers turned and glared at Rachel, who whispered sharply, "Well, ex_cuse_ me for breathing!"

"You're excused," Anders said absently. "Fighter Chasers, stop. I've just now decided to change the procedure, and unless if your Keeper possesses the Inner Eye, she is not responsible for whatever it is you're wasting energy on being angry about."

Fio, Missy, and Mandy stared at their shoes.

"Anyway," the small Quidditch witch continued. "The procedure is thus—a tournament of games among the three of you, excepting Seekers, to fifty points. I do not want to be kept here overnight, which is why the Seekers will not be participating. So. Rally plays Fighters, half-hour break, Fighters play Mice, half-hour break, Rally plays Mice. And then we all go home."

The teams glanced suspiciously at each other, trying not to look like they were glancing suspiciously at each other. A rather difficult thing to pull off.

  
Yolanda, that blond spongebrain, raised her hand. "Like, the Seekers? When are we going to try out? Like, after the tournament? Or what?"

Phoenix thought for a second. "That will be considered in due course," she finally deliberated, regally as a queen. "Trust me, you will be tested."

The blond girl subsided, as satisfied as one could be on that kind of a non-answer.

Silence reigned for a moment. The Mice clutched their brooms tightly.

"Well?" Phoenix demanded. "What are we waiting for? Fighters, Rally, in the air! Seekers, go over there."

Pet and Yolanda marched off to the section of the stands Phoenix had indicated, carefully not looking at each other. Until—

"Guess we're it, then?" Yolanda said quietly. "That's kind of weird, you know?"

  
The junior looked down his nose at the blonde. "I do not understand the oddity of the situation. Even if I did, that doesn't mean there's any bond of…companionship… between us."

Yolanda, looking affronted, sat quickly and stared fixedly at her broom.

Pet sighed and settled into a seat much farther along the row. Sophomores. They were such idiots. Especially the girls.

He looked up when a sharp whistle blew. That nasty elf-witch person had started the first match. Well. This _would _be fun.

***

Only half an hour later the Fighters and Rally sank to the ground, the former looking elated and slightly malicious, the latter appearing furious. It was easy to figure who had won.

Of course, there were exceptions, Pet reflected, after allowing himself a very brief smile at his team's victory. Those two, in Rally blue, were joking around and grinning. On closer inspection, he found they both carried Beater's bats. Perhaps…

Pet glanced at his team. Three Chasers, two Beaters, and— "_Damn _it."

Rachel, it appeared, was still alive and conscious, but had received a Bludger to the head (fortunately, though, the Keeper and the Bludger had been moving to the same side, so it wasn't quite as horrible as it could have been), and currently sat on the ground, clutching her head and swaying dizzily.

There was no way she'd recover in half an hour.

So that would explain why those Beaters were so overjoyed. Almost killing his star Keeper…well, he'd…

"Oh, that's just mean," growled the blonde Seeker. "When I get down there, I'm gonna yell at Em so bad he's not gonna know what hit him. Wendy, too. That's just mean." She glanced at Pet, for some reason.

Pet glared back. "Congratulations. Anti-team feeling. Marvelous."

The girl stared back at her broom, and began counting twigs in the tail of it. Anything to avoid this superior idiotic junior. Thinks he's on top of the world. Stupid cat.

Rachel, down on the pitch, clutched her head and swayed tipsily without noticing she was doing so. Mallets seemed to pound her head from the inside, centering on a five-inch bruise that she knew would be forming under her hair. Evil Bludger. Malicious Beaters. Ow, ow, ow, her _head!_

Mediwizards were scurrying over, carrying wands, potions, and even Muggle cooling packs. You have to admit, she thought slowly, those Muggles got along extremely well without magic…those ice packs were an innovation…best thing since sliced bread…ow…cranium…in astronomical levels of pain…

At about that point, she flopped on the ground, consciousness having fled. Maybe they'd wake her up in time for the game, she thought, somewhere between last thought and first dream. She hoped so.

***

A/N: Right then. All done with this chapter. Reviews are always appreciated, hint hint…

~Flamewing, who has been hit by a massive case of writers' block quite suddenly, and apologizes in advance for the lateness of the next chapter…


	3. Death Warrant

A/N: Greetings again…

***

A week passed relatively painlessly. The tryouts had gone by on Friday the Thirteenth without another problem—the Fighters Keeper had woken in time to play the second game, and the Seeker tryouts had been quick.

Jill took a deep breath as she left Charms, her last class of the day. Phoebe, walking alongside, glanced at her oddly. "What's wrong with you?"

"Tryout results are out today, remember?"

"As if you wanted to be on the team," Phoebe said, shaking her head. "Working with the enemies, remember?"

"Well, still…" Jill's voice faded. "Still."

Greg, one of the Beaters, caught up with them in the hallway. "Results today," he said, just those two words, and then nothing.

Surprising herself, Phoebe sighed gustily. "It's not supposed to matter this much! You're going ballistic, spastic about getting on this team that requires working with a bunch of otherschooly weirdos!"

"Maybe we just want to see the results to make sure we _didn't_ get on the team," he shot back. "_You're_ the one going ballistic about _us_ going ballistic."

Jill sighed, too, but not quite as loudly. "What are we arguing about?" she demanded.

"Nothing," Phoebe snapped. "_Ab_solutely, _pos_itively, _neg_atively, _whatever_-ily, _nothing_." Purposely knocking her elbow into Jill's shoulder, she swept away, head and shoulders above most of the kids in the freshman hallway.

The smaller girl sighed again, and wished she knew some of the extra-strong curses her brother was learning in senior-level Charms. Phoebe could seriously use a Horn-Sprouting Hex to her head.

***

Pet nervously polished his wand, which was currently employed with a recording spell, and taking care not to look up during class. Ms. Tinn was known to jump on anyone showing any kind of attention, and as Pet hadn't_ really_ read chapter four, section three of _Sorcerer's Stone: Material or Myth?_, he didn't want to be asked for a summary. Besides the fact that Rachel Avery, three rows over, had trained her school-wide infamous evil eye in his direction at the beginning of class, and hadn't removed it since.

He had no idea why she was teed off at him. The team lists would be posted on the bulletin board at the dismissal bell, it was true, but that explained nothing. It couldn't just be nerves. Rachel had made it widely known back in elementary school that she only gave the Eye if she had a very good reason to do so.

Well.

Professor Tinn stopped speaking exactly five seconds before the bell rang. She seemed to have an internal clock that stopped a lecture short right then.

The bell went off, resulting in a mass exodus to lockers, and subsequently home. With considerably more nervousness than he cared to admit, Pet just shouldered his bag (it held everything he needed for home), and slouched out of the room. Rachel, like some kind of electromagnetic tick, grabbed the strap of his bag and hissed, "I'm coming too."  
"It would take an idiot not to realize the fact," Pet said coldly. "And may I ask why you've been scowling at me all afternoon?"

She rolled her eyes. "That," she replied huffily, "should be obvious. Furthermore, it wasn't a scowl, it was a glare. You, being such an insufferable genius, should know that, don't you think?"

"What are you—are you still annoyed about that Potions test?"

"Hah! That was simply petty irritation," Rachel explained, tone dismissive. "There's more important things than flunked tests. Like a certain list that will be posted right about now."

Pet was, understandably, totally lost. "What does the results list have to do with anything?"

The Eye trained itself on him once more. "You've been wandering around like you don't care, that's what! And we the more dedicated people _do!_ It's really annoying, having an apathetic team captain!"

"Oh."

He couldn't think of anything else to say.

Rachel waited for about another minute, then muttered, "I don't have time for this," and brushed past him.

He didn't let himself be bothered. Just some gifted-sophomore-girl tantrum.

***

Wendy and Emerson didn't fight, unlike their prospective teammates at the other schools. Rather, they wandered over to the bulletin board trading jokes about Professoress Aviss, a quite eccentric teacher of Charms at Morwenna Elmira Robinson Academy. None of the jokes are worth recording.

Both were laughing at the other's miserable attempts at humor when the crowds sort of cleared in the lobby hallway, and a clear shot formed from their position to the bulletin board. Immediately Wendy stopped laughing.

"Okay, this is mostly it," she said, taking a deep breath. "If we're on it, then we're…"

"Dead, but that's all right," Emerson replied offhandedly. "C'mon!" They sped up, glancing around furtively, drawing to a stop at the bulletin board.

It was the same kind of flier, easy-to-miss on white paper with black block print, hovering around the top corner of the board. The heading read simply **ALL-STAR QUIDDITCH TEAM MEMBERS**, and below it four columns listed the members, reserves in a paragraph at the bottom of the page.

"C'mon, Beaters, Beaters, Beaters…there's us…oh my God, Em, there's _us!_ The both of us!" Wendy yelped excitedly. "We're on the team!"

Emerson carefully looked at the list. Unknown name…unknown, unknown, didn't know that one, or that one either… "_Crap_."

"What? Em, we made it!"

He tossed an exasperated look at her. "And we're the only ones who did from our team."

Wendy pulled up short. "Wait—you're—you're sure?"

"_Look_ at it."

She obliged. "Oh, rotten…"

"Exactly, my friend." Emerson glanced at his watch. "First meeting is on Monday…so…In three days and twenty-seven minutes, we, Emerson Smith and Wendelin Gillman, will be officially declared _dead_."

***

Phoebe, with the advantage of a head start (obtained rather rudely, but still there), finished at her locker ahead of the others, and pretended not to see them attempting to flag her down in the hallway. It wasn't her problem if they were jerks.

Which didn't make a whole lot of sense, but that's okay.

She pushed through the crowded hallways, bag under her arm and carefully ignoring anyone who waved. If their feelings were hurt, too bad. She'd catch up with them Monday. Or over the weekend. Something like that.

Eventually, the bulletin board came in view. For a minute or so, Phoebe meandered around, waiting for the lobby to empty a little more. The flier, again the only plain black-and-white, exclamation point-free, sans flashing-ink or -stars paper on the board, was easily located. Which meant no skimming through Wizards' Chess Club updates, Dragon Enthusiasts International meeting schedules, or ads for the new and not-very-well-attended Council for the Analysis of _A History of Magic_.

The flow of young wizards and witches carrying backpacks finally ebbed to a trickle. There were only about five people in the lobby when Phoebe walked over to the board and started reading the list eagerly.

Chasers were the first players listed, of course. Three people in the column. _Phoebe Marx._

She sighed, angry with herself for caring that yeah, she had made it on the team.

_Antonio Capelli._

"No!"

_Jillian Devin._

Hang on. It might not be so horrible. Now at least she sort of had comrades. People who insured that she wouldn't be the only freshman on the team. Which was a good thing.

And darn. She was on the team.

***

Rachel was about to go to her locker when suddenly, out of nowhere, she jerked to the right, through a pack of little froshie girls who all yelped and fluttered. In a short fit of malicious mischief, she pinched a little toy off one's backpack—a tiny teddy bear, bug-eyed and pink. Sickening, but the girl would be going ballistic trying to find it.

Pushing through the forest of packs and people, Rachel shouldered and slithered into the lobby. Easy as pie, if you're small—and here was the bulletin board. Right down there hung the AMERICAN MINORS QUIDDITCH LEAGUE flier, listing all the players in neat columns.

_Keeper: Rachel W. Avery_.

Right there in the hallway, she let out an earsplitting squeak. "I'm on! I made it! Yeaaahahahaha!"

She grinned at everyone who edged away, giving her a wide berth.

Except for one obstinate junior. Pet marched into the empty semicircle around her and started scanning the list. "Seeker…hmm…look what that says. Peter Ghanippe III. That would be me."

Rachel turned so quickly she almost fell over. "Oh."

And then she stalked off.

***

A/N: Okay. The entire purpose of this chapter was to get the results out of the way, and I do believe I've handled that well. What do YOU think? Reviews always welcome, hint-hint…


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